


Sins of the Mind

by Anonymous



Series: Sins of the mind [1]
Category: Les Misérables (Movie 1952), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Javert's Confused Boner, Jealousy, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4514004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert sees something he shouldn't and leaps to a lot of conclusions, none of them good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tcwordsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcwordsmith/gifts).



> _Unto the pure all things are pure: but unto them that are defiled and unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is defiled.  
>  _ Titus 1:15, King James Bible

 

Given the choice, Javert thinks as he peppers his eggs, he would prefer not to know. But, of course, he was not given any such choice.

It has been days now, and the memory still boils his blood. Across the dining table, the two of them sit side by side, Javert planted opposite beside the girl. Robert's clumsy hand is inches from Valjean's wrist. Valjean's head is half-tilted in Robert's direction, his lips quirking at Robert's every infuriating pronouncement. They are shameless. Valjean must think him a blind fool, to carry on in such a way - and at the breakfast table! Here under Javert's nose, as though he would not have the wits to sniff them out.

But he has been blind, has he not? Until only a few days before, he had been foolish enough to believe - well, what, indeed? Only that everything was as it seemed: that Jean Valjean was the solitary, perplexing man he had always pretended to be. That Robert was a bodyguard, perhaps. Or an old friend on an extended visit. He had certainly given no thought to the idea - uproarious! - of Robert's hand wrapped around Valjean's upper arm, or of Robert's knee shoving Valjean's long legs apart. He gives the pepper mill a vicious twist. Shameless.

Across the table, Valjean raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure you have quite enough pepper, Javert?" And Robert, damn him, has the audacity to chuckle. The sound is boiling water on scorched flesh, and Javert has slammed to his feet before he has time to think. Before he can clear his mind of anything but that rough breath at Valjean's ear and Valjean's flesh abraded by the scrape of Robert's whiskers.

Three pairs of eyes are on him. In his haste to stand, he’s upset the water jug. A dark patch spreads across the linen tablecloth. Javert scrapes his chair under the table.

"Forgive me," he forces the words through gritted teeth. "I’m not hungry." He spends a moment searching for a polite excuse to leave; fails; decides that Valjean is hardly entitled to good manners under the circumstances. He turns on his heel, and makes for the door before any of them can interrupt him.

The house is larger than anyone could need, even when shared between four of them. And yet, somehow, there is still too little space to breathe. Javert has been allocated a room that was once a study. His old boots are at the doorframe, encrusted with mud and still waterlogged. What remain of his few belongings are propped up between stacks of files - old business papers, Javert assumes. He has succeeded, so far, in keeping his hands off them, enticed as he is by the promise of more information about Valjean. The man has always been a puzzle, and it seems that this newfound secret Valjean is as much of a mystery as the man Javert once pursued.

The thought drives his memories back, against his will, to the scene in the parlour: to Valjean’s palms braced flat against the wall, his head bent low between trembling arms. To the way Robert had grasped him by the hips and seemed to shove forwards. Javert, frozen in the doorway, had been caught so fully by surprise he had only barely been able to choke back a startled grunt. He had lingered longer than he should have done before withdrawing.

Two days later now, and the image still sends his body reeling in two directions at once; a curious frosty burn that razes guilt and desire through the centre of him. He forces air out through his nose. Drags it back in. Waits until his mind rights itself.

Guilt and desire. These feelings have been commonplace since he woke for the first time in an unfamiliar bed, pinned in place by Valjean's warm hand at his forehead and, from across the room, Robert's suspicious gaze. That is how things work in this house: Valjean provides comfort while his watchdog keeps Javert firmly in check. Even now, months after his fall, with an open invitation to come and go as he pleases, Robert's eye is upon him at every turn. Very well, he had thought at first. This is the reality of the situation: Valjean is a forgiving man but his associate is still suspicious. The thought was galling but, Javert had concluded, undeniably just. He tormented Valjean with watchfulness for so many years. Why, then, should he not be prepared to bear a little of that same scrutiny?

Not quite the same scrutiny after all, he thinks now, breath coming too fast through flared nostrils and gritted teeth. Robert is no innocent ally in this business, that much is now clear. There is a dark ember at the heart of him that Valjean could not extinguish, for all of his cool damp cloths and whispered prayers. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, spitting livid black sparks.

Never mind. Never mind, put the thought aside. It is nothing. His eyes fall on his abandoned boots, standing forlorn guard beside the doorframe. He thinks of the honest simplicity of worn leather, the smell of boot black. The way hard work can purge the mind of dangerous thoughts. He is halfway to the door before he realises it has opened.

"You," is all Javert can say.

Robert gestures questioningly, and Javert steps aside, positioning himself between Robert and the exit. If Robert must intrude, he thinks, let him remember whose territory he has invaded. Javert's coat hangs on a newly-installed hook. His papers are folded neatly on top of Valjean's files. The chair smells of Javert's preferred brand of snuff. He hopes that Robert has noticed.

"Would you like to sit, Javert?"

Valjean, he thinks, would prefer him to sit. Valjean is happiest when he defers to Robert, and Javert - with his sickening craving for Valjean's happiness - has always been quick to obey. Obedience is no great chore: to swallow his pride, to bite his lip. To maintain the polite fiction that Robert has, somehow, the greater claim to Valjean's attention and approval. No need for that now. He scoffs, straightening, his eyes fixed on Robert's.

"Please yourself," Robert says mildly. "I'm just as sorry to be here as you are to see me. But I can't have our friend chasing after you every time you throw a tantrum. The poor man would run himself ragged if I let him."

The words would sting if they didn't come from the mouth of a hypocrite. Javert scowls, watching Robert settle back into the seat. Without Valjean to draw his ire or cool his temper, Javert's focus narrows until there are no longer two offenders in his mind. There is only Robert.

"Now," Robert unclasps his hands. The sight sends an involuntary shudder down Javert's spine. "What's got you in such a foul mood this morning? I know it can't be the eggs. You didn't stop at the table long enough to try them. How did you sleep?"

"Well enough," Javert grates. It is not strictly true, but he hardly owes this man an open-hearted discussion. He feels no guilt at omitting the details of his fractured sleep, and certainly not of the distracted evening he spent the night before.

"Glad to hear it. How's your health otherwise? Your leg working as it should be."

"My leg works perfectly well." He should not snap. He has been reading treatises, at Valjean's insistence, on the virtues of patience and grace. He should tolerate these frivolities, even from Robert. But now is not the time. There is a question that has been plaguing him for days, and now that Robert has walked into his chamber there is nobody to stop him asking.

"Have you ever seen a man whipped?"

Robert looks half startled by the question. Though not as taken aback as Javert might have expected. No matter.

"No, I don't suppose you have. Most men in your position haven't. I saw a great deal of it myself, during my time at Toulon." He looks up, waits until he is certain that Robert's eyes are upon him before continuing. "The prisoner faces the wall. The hands are bound, raised and spread. When the lash falls, the whole body jerks."

"What makes you bring this up, I wonder."

Robert is shaken, even if he will not admit it. That easy joviality has a cold note - whether it is one of fear or warning is not yet clear. Is he mentally shoving Valjean up against that wall again? Is the picture clear enough in his mind? Javert continues, the words thick and acrid in the back of his throat.

"The galleys boil in the summer - there isn't a beam of wood that isn't warm to the touch. When a prisoner is stripped for flogging, it is usually a relief, at first." He grimaces, fingers twitching with a memory hungry and despicable. "After only a few strokes, the handle of the whip grows slick in the palm. The lash is quite a tool, you find. It draws blood. It draws sounds that you would not believe a grown man could be driven to make. And make no mistake: all of them scream, sooner or later. Even the strongest of them is made to break. For men of a certain disposition," he swallows reflexively, "it is a pleasure."

Robert shifts in his seat. "The whipping, or the being whipped?" Even now there is a hint of a smile in his voice.

"No man takes pleasure in being whipped," Javert snarls. "You had better remember that much, especially if you plan on-" He draws back. Steadies himself. Tries again. "If you consider yourself a friend of Valjean's, you ought know what he has suffered. And if you do know, then you ought to-" again he finds himself at a loss.

Robert is still watching him, implacable and infuriating. Surely he sees, by now, the horror of what he has done to Valjean. Javert's fingernails dig hard into his palms, but still Robert will not be moved. "You should take care," Javert finally snaps. "I owe Valjean more than my life, and I mean to see that debt through. As for you, I owe you nothing."

Robert makes a thoughtful sound, then stands. On his feet, he is tall enough to stare Javert down, his large frame just as imposing as it was in Montreuil. Javert recognises more than a little of himself in that stance.

"Now, see here," Robert takes hold of Javert's lapels. "I don't ask for a thing from you. And as much you may owe that man in there, he'll tell you the same for himself. Whatever you've done to him over the years, he doesn't bear a grudge. Whatever you've said or done to him in the name of the law. Whatever marks you may have left on him-" and here his voice falters. The grip grows tighter, and there - finally! - is that crack in Robert's composure.

He reaches up to grasp Robert's wrists. The smouldering ember is alive and bright, consuming him. He feels his lips curl as he tightens his grip.

"Whatever marks I left on him, I hope for your sake they were the last."

And there. There, it is said. Let this thing lie between them: Valjean's body and the sins they have visited upon it.

"Still a spy after all, I see." Robert drops his hands, shaking his head. "Not everything that goes on in this house is your business, Javert. I'd be grateful if you kept that in mind."

He dusts his hands and does not stay much longer, feet moving with the swift clip of the guilty man. Javert watches him go with some satisfaction.

+

Javert half-expects to find Valjean at prayer, as he often is at this time of the morning, but when Javert slips through the library door, there is no sign of rosary beads or candles. Valjean is at the bookcase, one hand on a volume of Saint Augustine's Confessions. He does not stir at the sound of Javert's entrance.

It would be easy to steal forward and feel the weight of Valjean's back against his chest. Javert does not think Valjean would resist. It is only a little warmth he offers. Nothing more.

He shakes off the thought. Foolish. As though Valjean has not suffered enough at his hands - as though Robert's rough grasp is not enough for the man to endure without Javert's vile intentions disguised behind chaste touches.

The thought is mortifying, but he cannot shrink from it. Valjean's back is broad and straight, but he can no longer look at it without imagining greedy hands upon it: Robert's, his own, and generations of faceless guards. The image should fill him with nothing but shame - and certainly there is shame, but not enough. Not enough to purge the yearning heat at his centre.

No, there is nothing innocent in his touch, so he does not touch. Instead, he coughs awkwardly, straightening his shoulders. With Valjean surrounded by books and Javert at attention, they could almost be in Montreuil. But Valjean's clothes are warm and loose, his hair untidy, and when he turns to face Javert, there is nothing but trust in his smile. So, Javert thinks, Valjean is as much of a fool as the rest of them. It is good, at least, to be in illustrious company.

"My friend," Valjean's smile does not waver as he rests a hand on Javert's shoulder and guides him to the twin armchairs beside the fireplace. "Please sit down. I've been worried about you."

The second armchair is Robert's. Javert has sat in it a hundred times without the thought occurring to him, but suddenly it is clear. There are two matching armchairs in Valjean's library, and it is not the accident he had imagined it to be. How long has he been blundering through Valjean's life without taking note of something so obvious? He is a fool.

"You seem better," Valjean remarks, which surprises Javert. But perhaps the peace of the library has softened his expression. "This morning, I thought you might-" he laughs uneasily, and looks down at his book. Javert, with no book to look at and nothing to hold on to but his own knees, stares ahead at Valjean, hearing the unspoken concern. _I thought you might injure yourself_. It is always the same. Valjean has fretted over him since his rescue, his attention unwavering and inexhaustible.

"I am well enough," Javert says. If he has only learned to tell one lie, it is a useful one. And, he feels sure, not one that anyone is truly expected to believe. He has never had use for these exchanges of pleasantries in the past. But here, with Valjean's eyes on him and the cruel truth of his past acts sharp and close enough to skewer them both, it is easy to reach for the convenient fiction. He scrubs a hand across his forehead. "Or at least- you must know, Valjean, that I am not in peril. It has been months. There is no need to protect me."

Robert's words are echoing in his ears, the accusation behind them clearer now - _the poor man would run himself ragged if I let him_ \- and now he is sitting close enough of Valjean to see the truth of it: the dark hollowed eyes and troubled crease between his brows. He thinks for a moment, unworthily, that Valjean suits these kinder signs of a body's use. If that is what effect he has upon Valjean now, then of course he cannot be proud of it, but it is a better mark to leave. And, as selfish as the thought is, he would rather this than nothing.

"I am a burden," the words come unbidden, but he knows they are true so he will not retract them.

"You are nothing of the sort." Valjean, of course, has never had difficulty lying.

"You know that I am fully recovered," he says. Because he knows that he must make the offer, even if he cannot say the words. "I can make arrangements."

Valjean frowns at him. "It's only been a few months. Are you unhappy?"

Unhappy? On the contrary, he has been ecstatic. Or, no, certainly he has not been happy. He has been irritable and despairing and, most of all, he has been numb. But he has also been warmed and fed and pampered, and in allowing himself to be indulged, he has been dense.

Javert does not answer the question. Instead, he fixes Valjean with his eyes. "What is Robert? To you, I mean. What is he?"

He watches as Valjean's expression falters, then rearranges itself into something implacable and kind. "He is my dearest friend, Javert. You know that."

"You trust him."

"I have done since Montreuil."

"You believe him to be a good man?"

"The best I know."

Javert exhales, standing. He stares at the bookcase, angry with the way his heart seems to swell in his throat. "I hope one day you will trust me just as much." And then, guiltily, "I know that these things do not come easily."

He takes a deep breath. He feels sure that Valjean's eyes are on him, but he cannot bring himself to look back.

"Thank you for your time." The words come clipped and too-familiar, sharpened with an edge of bitter disappointment. "I will leave you to your books."

+

And so, he tells himself, he has his answer. Not, perhaps, all of the answers he might have wished for, but he has the most important answer of all: the truth is not for him to know.

It should be an easy thing to accept. Valjean still handles him gently, he is still easy with his smiles and overzealous with his concern. Even at his most morose, there is no question in Javert's mind that Valjean values his company and holds his good health close to his heart. The simple fact of the matter is that Valjean does not trust him. Or rather, he corrects himself, that trust is a thing to be earned and that Javert has not yet earned it.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to walk away: to let the outrage and disgrace rise up and choke him where he stands. Over the years he has trained himself well: to seek out error and eradicate it. Once contaminated, the whole is threatened. And here he finds he has disturbed the comfort of Valjean's home life, and so the solution is simple and elegant as breathing: remove the flaw.

He attempts it twice. The first time, he spends an hour in the study-come-bedchamber arranging his possessions in a travelling case. He lays them out on the bed in orderly rows, reminded for a strange moment of the day he left Toulon. How strange to think he has accumulated more clothes and trinkets in a few short months than he did in all of his time at the bagne.

He traces a finger over the rough cotton of Valjean's old shirt, wondering if he will be expected to return it, and if he can bear to do so. The shirt is not his and does not fit him well - the answer should be simple, and yet it is not.

He turns over the books in his hands - he has not finished half of them. The ones he made it through left him cold, but the memory lingers of Valjean's expression, attentive and pleased, and the way his hand warmed the back of Javert's wrist as he prompted him with questions. Did he enjoy the plot? What did he make of the characters? And always, unspoken but insistent in that searching expression: _did he understand the lesson_? Valjean has a fondness for books that contain lessons. Javert made this observation once at the dining table and Cosette had stifled a giggle, so he knows he is not the only one to endure the things.

He sighs, decides that he owes it to Valjean to finish these half-completed projects, and tries to find room in the case for them alongside the papers issued to him by the Prefecture and his old pair of boots, which he still believes to be salvageable. Next comes the ointment, which he has developed a habit of rubbing into his leg when it gives him trouble. It is ludicrously unsuited to him - delicately fragranced with Rue Plumet's rose petals and prepared by Cosette - but he cannot deny that the ointment itself is useful.

The glass jar is half-empty, and as he wraps it in a scarf it occurs to him that it will run out, that he will either have to do without it or come begging for more on Valjean's doorstep. He stares for a moment at the cloth bundle in his hands and finds that he lacks the imagination to visualise himself out on the street with his bag packed and his cloak and hat in place. The image will not come, necessary as he knows it to be. As a matter of fact, the very thought makes his knee ache. He unwraps the ointment and, over the course of his evening, he unpacks the entire bag.

His second attempt is bolder. Seeing the error in his previous effort, he does not pack a bag, but simply makes for the front door, satisfied to hear the clip of his new boots against the board. It will be for the best, to put the whole episode behind him: the river, the rescue, and this strange few months' absence from reality. It has been a pleasant holiday, he thinks with a hint of bitterness, but it is time for life to resume. It is.

He does not look to his left or right, and certainly not behind him, as he slips through the corridor. He ignores the thrum of life and laughter in the dining room, but slips past the door like a thief in the night. There is no time to think, no time to question. He does not set his eyes, one final fond time, upon Valjean's knobbled but reliable furniture. He does not admire the oil painting that neither Valjean nor Robert will admit to having brought to the house. Once he reaches the door to the parlour, the exit is before him. It is only a matter of steps to cross the room and remove himself from his benefactors' life. And yet he does not manage it.

Instead he presses a warm palm to the doorframe and spends a moment anchored by the cool wood. And then he turns back. He returns to the corridor, retraces his steps, and makes his way to the dining table where he takes his seat beside Cosette.

He nods obligingly at Robert's polite greeting and endures the pain that seeps through him at the sight of Valjean's smile: the relief that pricks at his still-raw conscience and the warmth that he fears he might drown in. He sees the way their shoulders almost touch, and he drags his gaze away.

"Late, Javert?" Robert teases. He nods to Cosette. "You most likely don't remember this, but back in Montreuil, the dreaded Inspector Javert was never late."

She laughs - the girl laughs! And at the sight of her amusement, Valjean laughs too, as though the name of Inspector Javert were not enough to strike horror to his core. It should offend Javert: the jokes at his expense, the loss of his terrifying power. He glances at Robert. The man's smile seems genuine, but his eyes have not left Javert's So be it.

"I am a different man now," Javert says. And then adds: "Or, at least, I think I am."

Valjean, whose cheeks are pink in the glow of laughter and family, raises his eyes to meet Javert's and reaches across to clasp one of his hands. "I know it."

It is a wonderful feeling, that strong palm in his own, and he cannot help but take hold of it, gripping Valjean with both hands, grateful and covetous all at once. If he tightened his grasp, just a little, Valjean would not be able to pull away. He digs his thumb into the soft underside of Valjean's wrist, imagining it tight enough to wrench an arm behind a back or - worse - encase that vulnerable flesh in iron. The image twists his stomach, but does not fade. He looks up to meet Valjean's eyes and sees only joy.

"You have changed so much, my friend." Valjean's voice is soft, but the words ring, terrifying, in Javert's ears. "I see it every day and it is truly wonderful. Even the most unyielding of us can change. You are surely the proof of it."

Robert's gaze has not left him, but when Javert catches his eye, his expression is unreadable. He inclines his head in acknowledgement, but does not relinquish his grip on Valjean's hand.

+

And that is the end of it. Except, of course, it is not.

The world is not what it once was. When Robert's hand brushes Valjean's elbow in the kitchen, he knows now that it is no accident. If it lingers longer than a moment, the sight is enough to set Javert's stomach churning, and he is forced to pull his eyes away.

It is none of his business, he reminds himself. Valjean will not speak and Robert- well, Robert has already given him all the information he needs, not only during their conversation in Javert's study, but in his every subsequent action. Robert is not ostentatious but he is unapologetic and he does not hide. When Marius Pontmercy drops by to visit Cosette, Robert is the one to discreetly guide Valjean to another room, a hand splayed across his lower back.

That this leaves Javert to chaperone Cosette is an unforeseen benefit, but one which Valjean would no doubt appreciate. Pontmercy, who seems naturally impudent, is easily silenced with a sharp glance or a brusque retort. At Javert's prodding, and much to Cosette's approval, he soon learns to treat Valjean with a subtle but undeniable respectful manner. It is satisfying to provide this small service, whether or not Valjean ever realises it.

There are other ways, he finds, that a man with his skills can be effective outside the police. He begins to accompany Valjean and Robert on their trips to the marketplace, determined to make himself useful. His leg still aches on cobblestones, but he manages well enough to match pace with Valjean while keeping a watchful eye out for thieving children.

"I tell you, Robert, it won't do," Valjean is incensed about something, his arms working and his eyes wide. Javert is half listening, half caught up in the activity around him. He found occasionally, in Montreuil, that the price of his own peace of mind was a slight inattentiveness to some of Monsieur Madeleine's impassioned speeches. He should know better than to disregard Valjean's opinions now, of course, but old habits die hard.

"The Reverend Mother's letters are very clear on the matter. Petit-Picpus needs more than donations: without the protection of the state, it will be lost."

Robert's sigh is more weary than unhappy. "It's a bad business," he agrees. "But what are we to do? Keep piping in the money and hope they make something of it."

"Money is not enough in cases like these," Valjean replies. And indeed, Javert thinks, even if money is enough for one convent, what of the others that will be left waiting for Valjean's next handout? And what about the crowds of beggars who each receive a share of the man's wealth? There is no limit to the need in the world, he thinks, and Valjean is but one man. The mental image comes unbidden: Valjean assailed on all sides by hands that grasp at his clothes, his coin, his flesh. He sees unknown figures grab handfuls of Valjean's hair and pull at his limbs, tugging him in all directions, all the while tearing at his coat and trousers. Valjean bears the onslaught and Javert is transfixed. Horrified.

He jerks backwards, almost colliding with Robert, who lets out a startled laugh and pats his shoulder. "Everything all right, Javert?

This is the worst of what he has to content with: his own mind has turned traitor. It assaults him with these visions more and more often. Until recently, the worst of it came in waves of heated frustration in the night, but more and more now the images invade his days. Worse still, their effect on him is as strong as ever.

He shakes his head, but straightens. "I'll survive," he snaps, because if he speaks too much or too slowly, he cannot be certain what he might say. He has never kept secrets well, and his mind has supplied him with a dozen in only the past week.

The dreams have not let up. They are all different and all monstrous. In some of them, he has Valjean on his knees before him, powerful body bruised and stained with Valjean's own blood. In others, he watches as Robert drags Valjean to the ground, the two of them barely lit as they join, filthy, in the pitch dark belly of a galley ship. Some nights, Javert is the one at Valjean's back, grinding his face into the ground. Others, Valjean is at Robert's mercy, and Robert brandishes a club or a whip. More often than not, now, he wakes breathless and horrified, his nerves and treacherous flesh alive with white-hot arousal burning him up from within.

It is no good. The images are monstrous, but he is resolved to resist them. What else can a person do with such a thing on his conscience?

He sets his eyes on their usual fruit merchant and strides ahead, hoping only that the others will follow and will not ask questions. Valjean is used to letting Javert direct their purchases by now. They have a smoothly functioning system: Robert selects the most generous fruit - the kind that both he and Cosette would insist Valjean choose. Then Javert argues down the merchant, and finally Valjean hands over he money.

He suspects that Valjean could manage this negotiation just as easily - and most likely more artfully. But Robert had laughed out loud one morning and suggested handing over the task to Javert. He does not appreciate the joke, but he cannot deny the truth of it. The small collection box in the corner of the dining room has been noticeably fuller over the past few weeks.

No one is laughing now. Valjean is back to the subject of the convent and cannot be moved. The more he speaks, the more he seems to distress himself with the thought of his own culpability. The nuns have come to him for help, so this makes him the personal owner of their destiny, despite the undeniable fact that heir destiny can only be altered by a greater force than any one of them. Javert firmly ignores the matter, concentrating on arguing the merchant down to a sensible price. There is nothing to be done. The convent cannot be saved. Not every fate can be escaped.

Although, he thinks as he holds out a hand for Valjean's purse and, upon receiving it, silently counts out the cost of the fruit: what greater force can there be than Jean Valjean when he is motivated?

"I don't disagree with you by any means," Robert is saying. "But you need to remember that you aren't in the position you once were. You can't just request a dispensation from the king and have the courts do your bidding."

"It isn't a job I miss," Valjean admits, his voice tight."But it would have been useful to keep a little of that influence."

Robert's smile is warm. He bumps Valjean with a shoulder and Javert turns savagely back to the merchant's stall. Behind him, he hears Robert's voice drop a little. "I wouldn't say you've lost it entirely, my friend."

The merchant bags the apples with an unprofessional eye cast over Javert's shoulder. Javert does not know what he can see - most likely something as innocuous as Valjean's hand held in Robert's - but it might as well be an obscene display for the way he leers. Javert snatches the bag and whirls around, half furious with the merchant and half-hoping to catch Valjean and Robert in the act. But, of course, there is nothing to catch.

But, of course, there is something to catch.

It is not over, this unspoken thing between the three of them. He is beginning to suspect that there is only one thing that will end it.

+

A few more days pass. He dithers. He frets. He makes decisions and changes his mind and is reminded, to his surprise, of Montreuil and his confusion over Madeleine. The sleepless nights. The indecision. His white hot fury at the magistrate's betrayal. There is something about Jean Valjean that has always perplexed and infuriated him. He has not slept properly for weeks. His nerves scream for peace and all the while Valjean continues to lie to him. It is time to take matters into his own hands.

He finds Valjean in the library, a book in one hand while the other hand dangles, listless, on the arm of his chair. Valjean glances up at his entrance, nods politely, then returns his attention to the book. It has become a habit between them. Valjean reads his novels while Javert studies the old records and public documents that Valjean has amassed over the years.

Today, however, Javert does not examine the bookcase. He does not take his usual place in Robert's seat. Instead, he crosses the room to stand before Valjean's armchair. If he were braver, he thinks, he might nudge Valjean's ankles apart with his boot, but he cannot find the courage. Or, indeed, the certainty that this is the right thing to do. Instead, he reaches down to cover Valjean's empty hand with his own.

There is a stutter of breath. The book in Valjean's hand rustles. Behind it, Valjean does not shift his eyes from the page, but the hand beneath Javert's moves, twists- turns upwards in his grasp. He tightens his hand, stilling Valjean's movement, and when he glances again at Valjean's expression, he sees that Valjean's lips have parted.

Javert presses down, telling himself that the chair is soft and Valjean is strong and that- well, that he may not know what will come next, but that it may be his only source of answers. Valjean's hand is unresisting beneath his own, the blood pounding through it hard enough that Javert can feel each pulse in the palm of his own hand. He tightens his grip, tugging backwards. "Up," he snarls, feeling Valjean follow, feeling his breathing stuttered now and not far from Javert's neck. He changes his stance, shifting from a tug to a push. Valjean now on his feet, allowing himself to be guided, then shoved, backwards towards the wall. The two of them stumbling, Valjean pushing back against his grip but yielding so easily, so sweetly, his shoulders hitting the hard surface beside the bookcase. Javert's palms flat against the wall on either side of him.

It is a triumph he did not know he sought, to press his fingertips to Valjean's jaw, to tilt Valjean's head until it is angled in a way that pleases him.

"Good," he mutters. "Good, very good. Now, Valjean, you will tell me - what is Robert?"

Valjean's eyes flicker from his eyes to his mouth. He does not turn his face away from the hand the grips his jaw, nor does he avoid Javert's gaze.

"I would call him my friend," Valjean says, after a moment, his lips barely moving. "But the word is insufficient."

The reply should not sting. It should not. But he has seen Robert's hands move greedily over Valjean's form, and the image will not leave him. He steps closer, moves his free hand to Valjean's shoulder, thumb exploring the sinews of muscle and bone so well hidden beneath fine cloth. Reaching for the cravat at Valjean's throat, he yanks it down an inch. Valjean's breathing is heavy and now his teeth are clenched. The bruises on his throat are livid red. Javert traces the marks with his thumb, outlining and measuring the size of them.

"You allow your friends too many liberties," Javert mutters, horrified and fascinated in equal measure. Unable, somehow, to withdraw his hand. Valjean suffers the touch, pulse juddering beneath the pad of Javert's thumb. "He did this." It is not a question. Valjean does not speak, merely makes a choked sound.

Javert hooks his thumb into the cravat and tugs at the knot until it hangs open and Valjean's neck is exposed to Javert's inspection. The sight is obscene. Valjean's skin is not smooth or undamaged by the sun, but it has paled after years beneath high collars and scarves. The marks Javert notices first are a cruel fresh red. He recognises them easily. Between Montreuil and Paris he has seen enough women of the town dragged in from the street to know that they are brands of debauchery. He touches his thumb to the largest of the marks. "Does it hurt?"

He has seen these marks so many times over the years, and he has never thought to ask such a simple question. They look as though they hurt. He wants to pull the skin taut and watch what happens to Valjean's expression. He wants to dig in with the nail of his thumb.

Valjean looks at him. "Not ordinarily, no." His voice is soft. "Javert, what do you want?"

The things he wants are alarming. Javert's hand tightens around the cravat. His breath is coming quick and terrifying. They are pressed so close there is no room for air between them, and Valjean is fool enough to ask what he wants. He wants Valjean's flesh between his teeth. He wants the taste of blood. He wants never to have been the man he is. He tightens his grip, leans forward.

"I could turn you around and have you face the wall."

"Is that what you want?" There is no resistance in Valjean's expression. Javert tests his grip at the place where Valjean's shoulder meets his throat. The body beneath his hands is not soft, but Valjean yields. It is sickeningly easy.

"That doesn't matter now. Is it what you want?"

Valjean's lips move but no sound escapes. Javert feels familiar, despairing laughter bubble up within him.

"I could do it. I think you would like it. I could put my hand on your back - I have seen these things happen, I know how they are done." His lips are close enough to almost touch Valjean's. He reaches down, and now one hand is on a forearm. The other is on the fastenings of Valjean's trousers, and Valjean is allowing it. When he looks at Valjean's throat, he can barely see Robert's bruises: the mark of the collar is abraded deeper, its bite far crueller than any other. The air is thin and heady. He inhales and his head spins. He tightens his grip.

"If what you want is pain, Valjean, then you need not waste your time with that- that friend of yours. I have inflicted enough pain to last a lifetime, if you crave more then why not come to an expert?" Valjean's eyes widen, and Javert presses closer. Valjean's body is hot, his breath quick and desperate. Javert twists his grip on Valjean's arm, pinioning it against the wall. "If you wish to play these games, then let me take my turn. Let me-"

" _Enough_."

Valjean's hand is gripping his wrist - not painful, but strong enough to staunch the words. He breaks off with a dismayed sound, but does not try to pull his hand free. Valjean does not push him away but does not release him: his grip trembles but does not relent, and when Javert finally dares to look up, he sees that Valjean is not looking at him. His expression is fixed on the doorway across the room, behind Javert.

Horrified, Javert yanks his hand free. Takes a guilty step backwards.

Valjean is breathing hard. The loss of contact seems to have broken the spell that overcame him, but Javert feels a twist in his stomach at the sight of him now: dishevelled and marked and hollow-looking in a way that he was not before. More than ever before, Javert wishes to press his palm to Valjean's cheek, but now more than ever he feels sure that such a gesture would not be permitted.

"I will leave," Javert says. The words are out of his mouth before he has time to stop them, that old instinct rising up and undeniable. "I have no business here. Your affairs are your own." Valjean is not speaking, and Javert cannot seem to stop himself. His mouth works, frantic. "I have imposed on you for too long. I was beginning to suspect it, and now-" he gestures, the single hand motion somehow taking in himself and Valjean and Robert's empty chair and the weight of the history between them. He finds that his hand is shaking and clenches it into a fist.

He would prefer not to have to see Valjean's reaction. If he could avoid ever meeting Valjean's eyes again, he would be happiest. But he has never been a coward. He glances upwards, and the pain in Valjean's expression is enough to reassure him that his decision is the right one, even though it is harder than he would like. He exhales hard, and makes for the door.

+

It does not take long to pack. To leave of his own accord had been a challenge. Each item to be carefully weighed and pondered over - the decision itself to be questioned back and forth in the new and confusing way he has become accustomed to thinking of things nowadays. Leaving in disgrace is a far more simple matter.

Very little in the room is unquestionably his own. The old boots - still unpolished - can be safely claimed. The clothes on his back are not his own but he will have to wear something. He resolves to have them laundered and returned by courier once he can cover the expense. The jar of rose-scented ointment was a gift undeniably for him and there is enough left to be usable, and so he wraps it in the old scarf and places it in his bag but does not look forward to using it for the first time once he's out in the cold.

Out in the cold. It will not be long now. He pictures himself in some vermin-infested tenement, rubbing the scent of Rue Plumet into himself. Inhaling that grim reminder of the place - and the people - he has sacrificed.

Well, so be it. If he is to be exiled, he exiled himself and has no excuse for self-pity.

As for the books, there is no question. They do not belong to him, and whatever the lesson that Valjean hoped they would impart, he has not learned it. He stacks them neatly on the cabinet and tugs off his new boots. The ruined ones will serve him well enough in this.

He does not have definite plans, but that he will do what he must. His leg is bad but his hands can still work, and he knows Valjean's routine well enough now to remain in Paris with no risk of their running into one another. It is not what he would have chosen, but it is for the best, he thinks as he takes a final glance around the room. It would seem that a man like him can change after all. But evidently not enough.

Halfway down the corridor to the drawing room that opens into the front doorway, he hears voices far away. Valjean: soft and distant. Robert: rumbling dangerously low. It is only to be expected. He doubles his pace, hoping for a quick escape, and it is not until he is at the doorway to the drawing room that he realises his error. They are not, as he imagined, upstairs in a bedroom or shut away in Valjean's library. Valjean is crumpled on the high-backed armchair before the fire, and Robert stands at his side. If they heard Javert approach, they give no sign of it. Valjean seems lost in grief. And Robert, as he always does, seems lost in Valjean.

"I should have known something like this would happen sooner or later," Robert's expression is unreadable. "I could have put a stop to it before it happened, and instead-" he sighs heavily. "May I speak with him? He'd rather hear it from you, but you're in no fit state to talk."

Valjean waves a hand. His eyes are fixed on the fireplace. "If he's still here, it should be me. He deserves to hear the truth, at least."

"He _knows_ the truth! This is what I've been trying to tell you: he's seen something. He's been creeping around your house and he's watched us together. I'd be astonished if there's anything he doesn't know."

Valjean shakes his head. "He doesn't know a thing, no matter what he's seen. I should have spoken to him sooner. He thought- he thinks-" his head sunk lower. When he speaks again, the words come with difficulty. "Whatever it is he's seen, he thinks it was something ugly."

Through the crack in the door, it is hard to be certain, but Javert is sure he sees Valjean's hand tremble. He only has a moment to tell, though, because in moments Robert is on his knees before Valjean's armchair and he is pressing his mouth to Valjean's palm.

"He's lived here for months, he has as much of a right to know about us as anyone. I should have told him the truth," Valjean's voice is low and distraught. "How can I expect him to trust us if I can't let go of my secrets?"

"It's hardly a secret. It sounds like you barely denied it."

"There's no telling what he'll do now. He isn't fully recovered."

"He'll do nothing. He's in a jealous fit, and once he comes to his senses he'll be back to his usual charming self. Perhaps it'll teach him not to poke his nose where it isn't wanted." Robert's voice is soothing, but the effect of his words is devastating. To hear himself diagnosed so dispassionately sends a pang of dismay through Javert. He presses himself against the wall, breath coming in short.

So this is to be his punishment: not exile but dismemberment. To have Valjean and Robert unpick his secrets and lay them out before them to be chuckled at and then dismissed - and before he himself has any hope of understanding them. It is a harsher fate than he has hoped for, but he must admit that it is no less than he deserves.

Valjean is shaking his head. His hand is pressed to Robert's face, and the hot white anger inside Javert flares brighter at the knowledge that Robert is right. This feeling is nothing as noble as the protective impulse he took it for, nor is it the warmth Valjean must have hoped to instil in him. It is jealousy, pure and simple, and he has allowed it to gnaw through the centre of him.

"This is different. He was not himself."

"He hasn't been himself since the revolt."

Valjean sighs. "That's what he reminded me of: that cornered animal at the barricades. Like the whole world was falling out of place." His voice breaks. He clasps a hand over his mouth and seems to fold his long body in on itself. His shoulders shake.

In a moment, Robert is on his feet and tugging Valjean up with him, enfolding him in a hug that could crush a man. Valjean buries his face in the crook of Robert's neck, and that is enough for Javert. Perhaps, he will admit to himself later, it is the jealousy that spurs him forward. Perhaps it is a kind of terrible pride: the knowledge that he alone can provide the reassurance Valjean needs in this moment. But in the moment his only thought is this: he is ready to step out of the shadows.

The door is noisy on his hinges. Valjean and Robert start, pressed so close together that they might be a single man, and look up in unison. Valjean's eyes track from Javert's muddy boots to his small bundle of possessions, breaks free from Robert's embrace and rushes forward to intercept him, his full body weight launching against Javert and pinning him against the wall.

Well, Javert thinks. Turnabout is surely fair play.

"Javert! Stop right there - please - you must not leave this house until we've spoken." Valjean's eyes are wide and rimmed red, and distantly Javert understands that that is his doing. "I owe you an explanation. And an apology."

Valjean drops his head, but does not release Javert. When he looks up again, his eyes are clear.

"I suppose you know, by now, you know that Robert is precious to me. I never meant to decieve you, but I am an old man, Javert, and change does not come easily to any of us." Valjean sighs heavily, and for a moment it looks as though he is summoning all of his power.

"Robert and I - we have spent so long with no need for words between us. To try to find sufficient words now, after all this time-" he breaks off, helpless. "There are not enough words in existence. He is my family, just as truly as Cosette is. I should have told you as much the first time you asked. I apologise." He looks over his shoulder, "I hope both of you can forgive me."

It is an onslaught. Javert does not try to push back or resist. And if he feels a quiet thrill at the contact? Well, there are no secrets between them anymore. He glances over Valjean's shoulder, expecting to see Robert watchful or suspicious, and instead he sees nothing but fondness in the man's eyes.

Robert lopes up behind Valjean and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Well spoken. And now our friend has heard your apology." He fixes Javert with a thoughtful expression. "The question is, then: what will he do about it?"

What indeed? Valjean's eyes are on him, hopeful and fearful and he cannot bear it. He looks at Robert. "Do you tell him often that he is a fool?"

"All the time," Robert says. "It makes no difference. It doesn't help that he's also the wisest man I know. Only confuses matters."

Valjean, between them, bows his head and laughs. The breaths come out in soft, hiccupping sobs, and that is enough to spur Javert on.

"Valjean, look at me." He will not touch Valjean's face. It is too easy to grab without permission. The hard thing is to earn that permission. "Please. You must know that you owe me no apologies. You have been nothing but welcoming and kind, and I have been thoughtless. Cruel."

Valjean looks up. It is difficult to speak of these things to Valjean's face, but he must do it. His investigation has been a failure. His behaviour has been disgraceful. It is time to find another way.

"You must understand, none of this comes easily to me. But I swear to you, I had your best interests at heart. I thought you were in danger-" he breaks off. "No. No. That is not true. I must have known that Robert is no danger to you. But the things I saw you do. I thought- well. Let me say it and be done with it: the sight put me in mind of the galleys." He is prepared for Valjean's flinch. For the distant state he forced Valjean into earlier. Instead, Valjean's eyes are steady.

But he has not yet spoken the truth. Not the whole of it, at least. "I worried for your safety, but I was jealous," he says finally. "And I worried for your safety because I was jealous. Because when I saw Robert touch you, I saw nothing but violence, and I was jealous all the same."

There. It is before them. He flattens himself back against the wall and prepares himself for Valjean to withdraw once and for all. It is better this way, he thinks. Now, at least, Valjean will not blame himself. He will understand that whatever perversion is deep within Javert, it is no one else's fault.

And yet- and yet he cannot leave it there. "It will not happen again, I swear. There is something terrible within me? Very well. I should have realised sooner, that error is mine. But I have learned it now. and if you will allow me to stay, I swear that I will not lay a hand on you again. My thoughts are vile, but I will find a way to temper them. I will. I cannot become the new man you want me to be, but I can learn." He laughs and it is frightful even to his own ears. "You see! I have already learned to beg for mercy."

Valjean raises a palm to his cheek, and his expression is achingly kind.

"Javert," he says softly. "In this house, nobody begs for mercy." And, as easily as that, he leans down to carefully brush his lips to the corner of Javert's mouth.

The kiss is light and sweet, soft enough that, when Valjean pulls back, Javert cannot quite believe that it happened. He touches a finger to the warmest part of his lip. When he looks up, Valjean and Robert are both watching him intently.

Robert finally breaks the silence. "We do beg for other things, on occasion," he murmurs. And Valjean looks sheepish but undeniably pleased.

It should be too much. A part of his mind is reeling, protesting, insisting that there is no sense in this and that he has no right to touch or to be touched. But there is a fragility to Valjean's hopeful expression and no warning in Robert's. And so he reaches forward.

"May I-" he begins, then lets the question hang in the air, too large to be formed in words.

Valjean nods, and he surges forward, his mouth greedy for another taste of Valjean's lips. He catches up two handfuls of Valjean's shirt, that rough cotton scratchy and familiar in his hands. He has no right to this, no claim on Valjean. And yet, the thought occurs to him, Valjean has no small claim on him: he wears Valjean's clothes, he sleeps and lives in Valjean's home, he tends his knee with ointment that smells of Valjean's garden. To inch further - to put his lips on Valjean's and taste his skin, feels almost natural.

Taking hold of Valjean's shoulders, he pushes Valjean backwards into Robert's solid weight. Valjean makes a choked sound into his mouth and lets the two of them push and pull him until Robert has his arms around Valjean's waist and Javert's hands are fastened around his shoulders. Robert catches Javert's eye, then drops his head to mouth at the exposed flesh of Valjean's jaw, just above his cravat.

"It occurs to me," he remarks between kisses, "that now I have no reason to be careful where I put my mouth." Valjean groans in response, his whole body trembling under their hands.

"Common decency, Robert," he protests. And Robert huffs a laugh before looking up to meet Javert's eye. Has he ever noticed before that the corners of Robert's eye crease when he smiles? He cannot say. Robert's right hand is encircling Valjean's wrist, and Valjean makes no attempt to pull it free. His eyes are half closed and his lips are parted, and when Robert angles his head and kisses him again, even higher this time, Valjean makes a sound that Javert has never heard a man make in all of his life: not in the bagne and not in the back alleys.

"So," Robert catches Javert's eye over Valjean's shoulder. "Where would you like him?"

"I-"

"Come now, you must have thought about it." Robert sweeps a hand, indicating the whole of the drawing room. "Between you and me, I've always enjoyed the way he looks draped over a desk. But please don't let that limit you. We have a lovely selection of furniture, and I can assure you: all of it suits his complexion."

It is too much to ask, too much to think about. He tries to look at the room, but cannot tear his eyes from Valjean, who is still trapped between them - taller than them both but held firmly in place, his breath coming in soft and urgent pants.

"Or perhaps you've thought more about how than where," Robert's voice drops low. The hand on Valjean's waist snakes between them, unfastening and loosening clothing. Valjean twists in their grip, and when he shifts upwards, Javert can feel him thick and heavy through his trousers. Valjean gasps, and Robert waits until Javert's attention is back on him before he speaks. "Make no mistake: this man is stronger than both of us. He can take a lot. I'm sure you've given that some thought."

Javert's thoughts have been far worse than this - brutal and unworthy. He tightens a hand in Valjean's shirt, unable to proceed without- without-

"Tell me you want this," he demands, because Valjean has been silent too long for his liking. "Is this truly what you enjoy?"

Valjean shudders in his grip. It would be easy, now, to pull free that cravat. To tear away the shirt and trousers and have Valjean before him once and for all. But he is determined to be patient. "Tell me how you feel."

"I feel-" Valjean's voice is thick. He touches his free hand to Javert's hair, stroking absently. And, when Javert looks, he sees that Valjean's back is flat against Robert's chest. He glances forth between Javert and Robert, then covers his mouth with his hand. He looks blissful. "You must forgive me. I feel appallingly selfish."

Javert opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his lips. Valjean may have answered him, but his face is angled over his shoulder, and his eyes are on Robert's. At their side, he sees Robert squeeze Valjean's wrist. There is something bittersweet in his expression.

"The most generous man I know," Robert mutters. "And you're appallingly selfish. I dread to think what that makes us poor sinners." He nods at Javert. Smiles again, that conspiratorial smile that Javert is coming to admire and dread. "Still, it's easily fixed. Inspector, if you'd be so good as to take a seat?"

So it seems he has missed his chance to direct the proceedings. But perhaps that is for the best. He follows Robert's gaze towards the armchair that Valjean had sat and wept in. It seems fitting, and he has always taken direction well enough. But first- he meets Javert's eyes with a hint of challenge, and leans forward to mouth at Valjean's throat.

 _Yes!_ , he thinks with a long-denied triumph as he closes his teeth around the vulnerable flesh - not painful, he thinks, but hard enough to mark. He sucks kisses into the spot beneath Valjean's left ear, grazing teeth and tasting skin and the tang of sweat. When he looks up, Valjean's head is tilted back, resting on Robert's shoulder, and Robert's free hand has come up to tease at his chest through his shirt. Valjean's cock is fully hard now, the outline clearly visible through his trousers. It stirs an answering throb in the pit of Javert's belly. When he looks up, Robert's eyes are on him, his expression hungry.

"Unforgivably selfish. Wouldn't you agree, Javert?"

"Quite," Javert agreed, and his own voice is rougher than he expected. "The armchair, did you say?"

He does not wait for an answer, drawing himself up and settling himself in the armchair. Valjean's chair, he thinks. And then he thinks: Valjean's chair, Robert's chair, it does not matter. It is his chair for the moment. And this moment, he thinks as he watches Valjean easily break free of Robert's grip, is a good one.

Valjean has never been elegant, for all of his virtues. Certainly he is tall and he cuts a fine figure, but there is normally a curious energy to him. An urgency, perhaps, that makes him seem almost ungainly. And yet, before Javert's eyes, he is light and grace. In a few steps, he crosses the room and drops to his knees before the armchair. The sight is overwhelming. The room seems to spin for a moment, and in that moment he can do nothing but reach for Valjean's shoulder as Valjean reaches for his hand, as though they might anchor one another in this strange new world.

"Now, this seems promising," says Robert, who has followed Valjean - who will always follow Valjean, just as Javert always will. He reaches down to bury a hand in Valjean's hair. Valjean hums and arches into the caress. "For our selfish martyr, an opportunity to lavish attention on another. And for our degenerate sadist," he looks up at Javert and catches his eye, "you can prove to us that you can be gentle with your fellow man." A flash of teeth, and his hand tightens in Valjean's hair. Valjean's head tilts backwards and the sound he makes is obscene. Javert groans in sympathy. "Or perhaps you'll choose not to. No matter. He can bear it."

"And you?" Javert snaps. Not angry, he tells himself. Not defensive or guilty, but impatient. His cock is aching now, and Valjean's lips are so close. But this must be settled.

"I can find ways to amuse myself," Robert says easily, and Javert detects an edge to his tone. "I don't often get to experience this from the outside. Perhaps I'll learn the appeal."

"So be it." If the remark stings, it is only for a moment. Perhaps he will think it over later - he thinks about their conversations more nowadays, can spend hours turning a sentence over in his mind hours after the fact - but for now he is hungry for Valjean's mouth. "Now, Valjean. Please."

Valjean smiles, reaches forward and tugs at the opening of Javert's trousers. Javert settles a hand on the back of his throat, feels the shift in balance as Valjean leans a little further. And then- _oh_.

It is not the warmth he expected, but heat. A sweet, hot suction that engulfs and holds him firmly. He gasps aloud, the need to thrust upwards clear and sharper than he had expected. When he looks up over Valjean's head, he catches Robert's eyes.

"I should have warned you," Robert sounds impossibly smug. "He does this very well."

And just like that the world dissolves around him, and he is lost in the sight of Valjean's mouth stretched wide around him, his eyelashes lowered and his cheeks hollowed. He thrusts upwards, just a little, and Valjean takes it easily, swallowing more of his cock. The muscles of Valjean's throat contract around him, and it is agony and wonder all at once because this cannot be easy for Valjeam. It cannot be comfortable or pleasant, and yet Valjean opens himself willingly. When Javert reaches up to fist his hand in Valjean's hair, Valjean moans as urgently as he did for Robert, and takes him further still.

 _I could have all of him, right here,_ , the thought comes unbidden, accompanied by an image so vicious and terrifying that he almost loses his grip on Valjean's hair. Disgraceful. And yet- he thrusts upwards harder than before - _choke him_ \- feels Valjean's throat contract around him - _like that, yes_ \- the heat igniting that vicious spark that will always be within him. He remembers the way Valjean snatched his handcuffs from him in Montreuil, forced him back against the wall with the chain to his throat. The world had faded to a brilliant white. He would not do such a thing to Valjean. He will not.

He squeezes his eyes closed. Forcing his hand to stay loose but insistent, he guides Valjean's head. He tightens his grip as though he is somehow in control. As though, with Robert's eyes upon him and Valjean's mouth on his most tender parts, he is not the most vulnerable of them all. He thrusts hard. Valjean moans and the reverberation shudders to the root of him. He groans and thrusts again, curses and pleading words forming on his lips. Valjean plays him, even as he takes everything Javert offers - punishing thrusts and hesitant caresses in equal measure, each seems to spur him on in his task, until they are racing: Javert's pulse thudding through him chasing and pursued by the skilled heat of Valjean's mouth.

It does not take long. He closes his eyes - half ashamed of himself for blocking out the sight of Robert and half grimly practical. With his eyes closed, the world narrows to Valjean's mouth, hot and hungry and gloriously willing beneath his hands. This act is a cruel one, he tells himself. But it is not. It is degrading, but it is not. It is not. The darkening bruise on Valjean's throat is not the mark of a guard punishing a convict or a brute abusing a whore. It is his apology and his claim, both push and pull. And if Valjean did not wish it, he would not allow Javert to do it. And if he did not wish this, it would not be happening. It would not, but it is. It is. It-

The knowledge, solidifying bright and true within him, is enough to push him over the edge. He comes in a hot burst and collapses backwards in the chair, arms splayed outwards and eyes closed.

His breath evens. The flame within him dulls to a warm ember. He is quenched.

He thinks he is only out for a moment. When he opens his eyes, Valjean is still on his knees and mouthing at his softening cock. He realises - with some shame - that Valjean is still hard in his trousers. His cock stands out so clearly, it must be painful. And through the thin shirt, his nipples are visibly stiff. And still, he applies himself to the task, licking and sucking up the remains of Javert's mess.

This, surely, is no way to treat a man. But Valjean is a man, and he welcomes the treatment with hot tongue and hands that caress Javert's thighs. Behind him, Robert's eyes are hot and dark as he watches Valjean work. Can Javert trust himself in this? He cannot say. But he can trust Valjean and, he thinks, he can even trust Robert. He has let them instruct him in everything else in this new life, after all.

Javert cocks his head backwards to take in Robert, but Robert's eyes are on Valjean and it is not hard to see why. He is in disarray: his clothing still dishevelled from Javert and Robert's earlier attentions, his lips swollen and wet. There is a slick smear on his chin, and Javert wants very badly to wipe it away with his thumb and then press the thumb to Valjean's lips. There are a dozen things he wants to see Valjean do with his mouth that had never occurred to him before. It had never struck him as remarkable before - certainly not next to Valjean's high cheekbones and long legs. And yet now he finds himself fixated.

Valjean's lips are parted, and Javert glances at Robert, half hoping for direction. Robert smiles. "You can see what he needs, can't you?" And at Javert's nod, he reaches down to catch one of his arms with one hand and support his back with the other. "Quickly, now. He won't last long in that state. Take care with his left leg when he's getting up. Good, good. Now- over here-"

Between them, they prop Valjean against the wall, and peel away his layers - the half undone cravat, the rumbled shirt and those confining trousers - until he is naked between them, half dazed and somehow heavy as though he's already found his climax. His body is astonishing. Lean and powerful, but slimmer than Javert might have expected from a man so strong. Valjean's back is to the wall, which is for the best since Javert's heart is filled up with the sweetness of the moment, and he cannot bear to see the years of cruelty etched into this beloved body.

Valjean glances between them, his expression drowsily blissful, and he reaches up to touch both of their faces.

"My friends," he says, with an air of helpless pleasure that seems choked with swallowed tears. "My very dear friends."

"Jean," Robert's voice is soft. He turns his head to press a kiss to Valjean's palm, and for a moment Javert cannot bear to intrude upon them. Instead, he turns his attention to Valjean's sides: sleek and powerful and, when he trails a curious hand down Valjean's flank, sensitive enough to make Valjean jerk satisfyingly beneath his hands. Very good. Valjean's cock is straining upwards, leaking and desperate, but he leaves it for now, laying his hands on Valjean's chest instead. His nipples are still hardened to pointed nubs. Javert finds one, twisting it experimentally between his fingers to feel the way Valjean jerks beneath his hand and into Robert's mouth.

His mouth. Of course. Because Valjean and Robert are kissing now, Robert's hands beginning to roam Valjean's body along with Javert's. And so Javert busies his own mouth; trailing biting kisses across Valjean's shoulder blade, finding a spot behind his ear That makes him jerk upwards into Robert's grasp. "Valjean," he mutters into the man's skin, half watching as Robert's right hand frantically opens his own trousers and takes hold of the two of them. "Yes, good. The two of you-" Valjean sobs at the words, shifting minutely so that he might thrust up into the grip Robert has on the two of them, close enough to remain pressed up against Javert, so the three of them are joined in shared flesh and shared heat.

Javert sinks his teeth into Valjean's shoulder. There is nothing teasing in the gesture: he expects it will be painful and it is. He expects Valjean to yelp into Robert's mouth and he does. He expects Valjean to come in hot waves, and before his eyes it happens, his hands coming up to cling to Robert's shoulders while he pants through the intensity of of his orgasm, Robert following close behind him. Javert can only watch and breathe the moment in, stunned, with a hand on each of them and his mouth on Valjean.

"You are mine," he mumbles into the soft inner flesh Valjean's arm, hoping somehow not to be heard but no longer able to keep the words to himself.

Robert laughs aloud at the sound and snakes a hand across to clasp his shoulder.

"Tread carefully, Inspector. You're just as much his as he is yours."

He is halfway through a scoff when he realises that Robert is right. And he is halfway through feeling unnerved by Robert's rightness when he feels Valjean catch hold of his hand, long fingers encircling his wrist. Perhaps, he thinks, it is not such a terrible thing to belong to a person. Valjean, after all, seems overjoyed to belong to two.

He leans forward and rests his forehead against Valjean's shoulder. At Valjean's other side, Robert huffs an indulgent sound and wraps an arm around the two of them. And after a long moment, they relax into a curious state of recovery, breathing evening out until their chests are moving as one and it is no longer easy to tell where one of them ends and another begins. It is blissful, it is peaceful, and he is able to believe, for a moment, that they will somehow be able to remain this way: undisturbed in this curious but undeniable union.

"Oh, but wait." He says suddenly. "One thing."

"What's that?" Valjean's voice has a pleasant sleepiness to it that makes Javert wish to do foolish things: press kisses into the side of Valjean's throat. Gather wildflowers from the bank of the Seine and bring them home. Fall asleep in an incriminating half-naked pile in the middle of the drawing room. He glances at Robert.

"We really must try to find more sensible times and places to do this in future. This is the front room of the house, for heaven's sake! No wonder you keep getting caught."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tcwordsmith as part of the valvert pornathon. By the time I'd reached the end it had galloped away from your original prompt, so I hope it's still to your taste. 
> 
> Many many thanks to vaincs for advice and hand-holding despite being far too busy to be working on anyone else's fic. You are magical.


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